Drunken Thoughts
by HappyHowler4myLuver
Summary: Haymitch speaks with the bartender one night, and the next, and the next. Let the recollections and regretting begin. *Collection of one-shots. Rated M for Haymitch's thoughts. Post Mockingjay*
1. The Routine

**Drunken Thoughts:**

**The Routine**

**I do not own ****The Hunger Games**** series, and there are some ****Mockingjay**** spoilers.**

Haymitch Abernathy swallows another gulp of poison, the bitter drink cascading through his veins as he sets down the bottle. He takes a look around. Empty glasses litter the bar as the clock strikes two. Only the bartender remains with him, wiping off the counter in a gesture more to occupy him than to clean. He slings the slightly damp washcloth over his shoulder, casting an apathetic glance in Haymitch's direction.

"You want another?"

"Yeah."

The conversation supplies nothing except to hear the words. Of course he wants another. Haymitch Abernathy never turns down an offer for another drink. As the bartender grabs the hard liquor the Victor closes his eyes, taking in the moment. It was the middle of the night, he had nothing to live for but the next bottle, and he'd repeat this process every night until he died.

There were worse ways to live.

The Hunger Games now in the past, the entire country of Panem now found it confused. _How do we live now? What do we live for now? Who do we serve?_ The idea of a rebellion remained the only thing keeping the poor districts alive, and the Hunger Games remained the only thing supplying the existence of the wealthy districts and the Capitol. The rebellion had succeeded and the Hunger Games terminated—now what? The citizens held so much hope to win, but not once did they possess the faith to believe it to happen. Now they found themselves lost, puzzled over what to do with their children safe from murdering.

The bartender hands him the drink. Haymitch accepts it, but doesn't bring the glass to his lips. The liquor waves as it suspends in air, hanging inches above the counter. The Victor watches it roll, slopping against its walls until it slows considerably. With his hand shaking the drink never quite subsides. With his mind constantly reeling the images never quite vanish.

The Hunger Games, his own in the Quarter Quell, never leave memory. If anything, they grow stronger and even more vivid than when they actually occurred. Every scream, every expression, every pair of eyes staring at you right before you kill them flash in the mind as though desiring to relive the time. And they _knew_. They knew if they were going to die if not when. Just as the moment arrived they might have debated fighting, struggling, postponing the final breath of life. If they were unfortunate enough not to die immediately, they stared you down, sending every emotion into their pupils to display for the world. Pain, fear, hatred, confusion, regret, insanity, but most of all, youthfulness.

They were young. They still are young. If the good die young, then he must be the largest bastard of them all, his damnation set in stone when he came out the Victor of the 50th Hunger Games.

Haymitch stares at the drink a second longer before bringing the glass to his worn lips. The liquid sloshes around his mouth for a fraction of a moment before rushing down his throat and into his bloodstream of animosity and dead hope. The bartender notes his strange actions, but says nothing as he collects the glasses from nearby tables. Haymitch was more than a regular to the bar; he was a fixture upon the building. He gathered numerous dishes and took them to the sink in the back.

The glass rests on the counter, empty. Haymitch runs the back of his hand over his mouth as he lifts a napkin off the bar. He plays with it through his index and middle finger as the bartender comes back to the main area. He pauses his work when he notices Haymitch's lack of alcohol.

"You want another?"

This time, the broken man doesn't respond immediately, and the bartender sets down the two bottles in his hand. "No." He waits another moment as the worker returns behind the counter and grabs a glass. This time, he fills it with water and sets the drink down next to Haymitch. "Thanks," he remarks, taking the glass. This time he doesn't hesitate before taking a swig. "There was a meeting today, down at the Capitol."

"Oh? What about?" he replies, knowing their routine.

"What to do about the government ruling. They wanted us all down there—the Victors that is—but I didn't make it." He took a moment to stare at the counter, setting the glass back down in its ringlet. "I bet they threw a party when they realized the stubborn Haymitch Abernathy wouldn't be joining them, the bastards."

The bartender nodded, always neutral to any Capital affair. "Why do they want you guys there?"

Haymitch shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe to remind them of the damage the past president caused. Maybe so they can keep a close eye on us. After all these years, I guess they've known our hatred won't really die."

"It can only die with you," responds his companion. "They forced you to murder innocent children."

Haymitch's lips curl slightly, in a gesture of grim thought. "They only forced us to partake in the blood bath. After that, if we didn't murder, we got murdered. We all knew that. We all knew." He dropped his face as the bartender grabbed him another drink, this time a simple beer. Haymitch took the bottle, popped the top, and swallowed half the drink at once. "We all knew, and no one did anything for seventy-five years, the sons-of-bitches." He finished the beer, practically slamming down the glass bottle. But he knew his strength, even if he wasn't sober. He shoved the glasses away and stood up, swaying on his feet before leaning against the bar.

The bartender grabbed the bottles and proceeded to throw them away. He half-watched as the Victor stumbled out into the quiet night. He never could understand why they called them Victors. If anything, they were nothing more than forced murderers, and forced child murderers at that. The government behind the Capital possessed sick, twisty minds.

The Hunger Games were only the past control. In another fifty, hundred years, something even more terrible and painstakingly horrendous would occur to keep government in power. But what did he know? He was only a bartender.

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**~HappyHowler4myLuver**


	2. To Reminisce

**Drunken Thoughts:**

**To Reminisce**

**I do not own anything of ****The Hunger Games**** and this is post ****Mockingjay****.**

The middle-aged man wipes down the counter, chuckling with his customers as they tell jokes and stories from their childhood. The atmosphere is friendly, simple, a bit chilly from the winter wind but warm with the help of alcohol. Multiple small groups gather around in the corners, engrossed in the current raconteur of their table. Just as a young man starts explaining how he saved his family form starving the previous year the entrance door flies open. Bone-chilling air cuts through the bar and every man pulls his jacket tighter to his body. The door remains open a second too long and one impatient customer turns around to yell at the fool to shut the door. Then he realizes its Haymitch Abernathy and immediately returns to his fellow drinkers.

The haggard man staggers to the bar; pulling out a stool two seats away from the group the bartender was conversing with. Nodding to his companions, the bartender walks toward Haymitch.

"What'll you have?"

"Whatever's strongest."

The dark-haired man nodded, yanking out a dusty bottle from under the counter and picking out a large shot glass from his supply. The other men cringe at the scent of the sharp cinnamon, but he fills up the glass to the rim and Haymitch accepts it, downing the liquor without flinching. He sets down the glass in front of the bartender, who proceeds to refill the glass three more times before Haymitch finds temporary satisfaction.

The bar slowly resumes the usual level of chattering, but every pair of eyes occasionally glances in the direction of the drunken man. He feels their stares, but focuses on drinking. Sobriety makes reality possible, and he left reality decades ago. The group also sitting at the bar, three men and the bartender, work to absorb themselves in the current tale but know it's only a matter of time before Haymitch speaks up about the past games, the Capitol, or about the loss of humanity in general. However, another hour passes by and he says nothing but ask for another glass. The pub regains its usual vibrancy and eventually forgets about the Victor.

The clock ticks toward midnight and every group walks out the door to return to warm houses and sleeping families. The bartender starts to send off his group when Haymitch starts to speak.

"You got any vodka?" he asks, interrupting the man. He takes a quick sigh, full of pity rather than true annoyance, and easily pulls out the bottle. He grabs a clean glass and pours Haymitch more of his medicine. He nods appreciatively before taking a drink. Just as the bartender starts to continue, the Victor interrupts him again. "Any of you know… what happened to the…" He swallows loudly. "The Donner's?"

Each one watches him, eerily silent. Finally, the one closest to him, with graying, thinning hair, replies. "They didn't make it out of the attack. All dead now."

Haymitch nods. The four companions can't tell if he's remembering his ally from the second Quarter Quell out of nostalgia or if the alcohol is to blame. He looks at the new drink in his hands, the liquid sloshing around, and continues his sudden speech. "Everyone judges, don't they? How I could let those children die over the years. Why I never bothered to change anything. Could any of you save those kids? Could any of you bring someone back from the damned games?"

The youngest man of the group cleared his throat, albeit quietly. "No one ever expected you to return, Abernathy. I don't think we ever really cared." He took in a breath, cautious of his anger but wanting to voice the harsh reality. "I guess any hope we had for our own coming home was based off the fact that they were our own flesh and blood. Of course we blamed you for their death. We blamed the Capitol. We blamed the games. We blamed every other kid in that arena. We blamed everything that breathed because our own children couldn't."

Haymitch nods again, the truth of the District 12 citizens soaking into his blood stream thicker than the liquor. However, he'd heard it all before. "If I could take back every death I would. Forty-seven children and teenagers murdered so I could make it home. I would either continue living, but be a hated and damned bastard for the rest of my life, or die. At the time, I preferred to breathe and killing was the only thing necessary." He paused, taking a swig of the drink. "When death stares you in the face, either you fight or close your eyes forever." He pauses again, this time because his emotions catch up to his words as he vividly recalls his time in the arena. "I can't wake up each morning and pretend it never happened, and because each one of those tributes will never be able to open their eyes again. They'll never wake up from that nightmare. Or maybe they did, and I'm the only one still living in it."

The bartender offers him another drink, but he refuses. He lays down his money on the counter and climbs off the stool. He bid goodnight to the men, but stopped just before he opened the door. The bartender stared at him, anxious for him to leave but curious for whatever he had to say. However, just as he parted his lips, he swung open the door and vanished into the frozen night. The four men shivered against the cold until the heat from the room refreshed their bodies.

The bartender focused on the finishing conversation, but he never did concentrate wholly on the men. He ran over in his mind the possible words Haymitch had wanted to say, had been about to say. But then, maybe those words were better left unspoken. He reviewed the night, the location, his friends, and himself.

He wondered how many others had been left anticipating the words that never came from the mouth of Haymitch Abernathy.

_**HG-CF-MJ**_

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**~HappyHowler4myLuver**


	3. A Woman's Touch

**Drunken Thoughts:**

**A Woman's Touch**

**Warning: Contains Vulgar Language**

**I own nothing of the ****Hunger Games**** series.**

The touch from a woman's hand can send a man's thoughts lower than he deemed possible. The wetness of her kiss, the taste of her tongue, and the plumpness of her lips can eradicate any and all sense of coherent thought for a man. Her curvaceous body, her round chest, and her slender legs can dominate the mind of a man within a matter of moments. I know, because I once succumbed to all these visions. But not since the Hunger Games.

When I was younger, the idea of a naked woman sent chills throughout my body. I told every girl I dated how much I loved her to get her in my bed. Running my hands down her body, hearing her moans and groans under my lips, and later the actual sex were the only elements I needed to desire myself to stay alive. A woman's touch is all a man needs to want to breathe, the only passion we can rarely refuse. Sure, we act tough and apathetic, but if playing it sweet gets us to the physical consequence then I would pretend to be a princess every time. The feel of a woman, the physical and raw moment, sent me soaring.

Even in the beginning of the first Hunger Games, I continued to hold on to my desire for sex. To find a woman to screw came second in my life shortly after surviving. But something about the murder and the deaths and the bastard Careers made me reevaluate my life and question the want for a woman. Hell, I still loved the sexual relations and giving my dick the release it deserved. However, it didn't take me long to realize that any sort of intercourse couldn't relieve the nightmares that haunted my dreams, when I slept and while I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Alcohol became my reason for breathing, especially after the Quarter Quell. No visions of naked, marvelously sexed-up women could cure the demons chasing my memory. I took up a bottle of whiskey and drowned it the first night I returned to District 12 following my second games. From then, the body of a woman was replaced with the outline of a glass bottle and I stuck to my drug. Whiskey, rum, beer, vodka, bourbon, I drank it all. After awhile, the screaming and the visions grew into a low hum in the back of my brain. The nightmares never completely vanished, but they grew nebulous enough and I accepted my fate.

I never thought a glass of liqueur could give me the same level of passion as a woman, though not in the same fashion. I think the best sex now would be drunk sex, but then I wouldn't give a damn what happened so long as a drink was in arm's reach. I guess sex no longer holds the same appeal it had. What a pity.

I bet Maysilee Donner would have continued her life with her family. Or maybe she'd have taken my road and lived out the remainder of her worthless existence in alcohol. Or maybe she'd have discovered physical appeal and made her living as a whore. But I'll never know, because I survived. Here I am, pulling on a pair of shoes to go out in the disastrous weather to hit up the bar. I grin remorsefully, because no one will ever understand my pain, my loneliness and my confusion.

But the alcohol doesn't care about my past and it sure as hell doesn't care about my future. Yet, it's always there for me. It's never late, or breaks promises, and has no problem waiting a few hours while I sleep or if I'm recalling my previous life before alcohol became my god.

I stand in the doorway of my Victor house. The image of a woman, a nameless yet beautiful creature, flashes in my mind's eye. For a moment, I think my penis is reacting to the body, still alive after all these years. That is, until I notice her figure curve in an impossible direction until her silhouette is transformed into a beer bottle. I chuckle pitifully as I open the door.

A woman's touch once paralyzed me. Now, I spend every moment hoping alcohol will do the same to my mind.

_**HG-CF-MJ**

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**~HappyHowler4myLuver**


	4. One in the Same

**Drunken Thoughts**

**One in the Same**

**Written by: HappyHowler4myLuver**

***HG-CF-MJ***

She sits quietly, both hands grasping the glass as the condensation rolls over her knuckles. The bar is relatively empty as the morning arrives, but the darkness remains. She hasn't moved for a while now, but the bartender knows her kind. She never participated in the games, but Effie Trinket has seen as much blood and scars as any tribute. Ever since its end, she's lived with relief and guilt, but more than anything, she's lost. Without the Hunger Games, without the war looming over her head, Effie no longer knows what her purpose in life is. Perhaps she never really had one.

The door hastily swings open and Haymitch Abernathy staggers in. Already thoroughly drunk, he raises a finger as he steals a bar stool. The bartender hurries with a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey, but Haymitch stops him with his incoherent blabber. The older man sighs before handing the entire bottle of liquor to the victor. The drunk drinks for countless moments before pausing to breath. For the first time, he gazes around the room and finally spots the former announcer**.**

She knows him, he knows her, but neither knows how to address the other. Eventually Haymitch steps down from his seat, barely catching himself before falling on his ass. He sways to the chair just two away from Effie and slumps against the bar to hold him up. She's never moved an inch, her palms growing numb from the increasing cold. Haymitch motions to the bartender an understood gesture.

"Lil far f'om home," he slurs, taking a gulp of his whiskey.

"What home?" she murmurs. Haymitch ceases his drinking, studying her. She turns to face him, shocked by the serious expression etched across his face.

"Th' one ya lived in, back 'n District 2." She can't even smirk as she takes a small swig of her beer. Haymitch waits until the bartender brings him a bottle of vodka and two regular-sized glasses. He pours two drinks, never spilling a drop. He picks up the cup and hands it too her. She finally releases her beer and takes him, holding it up with his.

"Cheers," she states, and he nods before they both drink. Effie's clear inexperience is written across her visage and Haymitch smiles. "What brings you here this late at night?"

"Late? It's one 'n th' morning—I'm early, sweetheart."

Effie chuckles. "I see. So why so early? Afraid the booze will disappear without you here to drink it all?"

His face darkens. "Don' even joke 'bout such tragic affairs." However, he smiles as he finishes his vodka, his speech miraculously sobered. "It's the only bar in town, and this shipment usually arrives before my personal deliveries. But enough about me, what about you? Why so far away?"

"I was traveling on the train, waiting until I saw somewhere that reached out to me to get off and stay."

Haymitch's eyebrows raised. "And you chose this town? District 13's doing better than we are."

"District 12's never appealed to me, no offense intended."

"None taken, it's never appealed me to me either."

"I guess I figured that this was the only place left in Panem that wouldn't condemn me to Hell for coming."

Her hands return to their former position, wrapped tightly around her new glass. Haymitch smirks frighteningly. "You figured wrong. I've hated you since I first heard your voice. However, here in District 12, the majority of us know where we're going in the end, so we'd rather get along in this life so it's not awkward in the next."

Effie returns his darkened expression. "I'll toast to that philosophy." Their glasses clanked and both down the liquor. Effie sighs, letting go of the glass. "How do you do it, Haymitch? How do you manage to get through to see the next morning?"

"I don't, that's why I drink. I killed so many people, so many innocent kids, just so I could spend the rest of my life wishing I was dead."

"I feel like I was in them. I'm a monster, and no matter what I do from this moment on, I can never redeem myself. I'm such a beast no God would filth his hands by saving me." Haymitch watches her, waiting for her to explode in anger, rage, and tears. But she continues to stay in her position, her eyes never wandering from her hands.

"We're all monsters. Who knows, maybe you're right," Haymitch responds, raising his glass a few inches before setting it down without taking a drink. "We know we're not at fault, we killed because we were forced, and yet we're the guilty ones. Damn Capitol. I almost wish they'd get saved, just so I don't have to spend an eternity with them. But you, on the other hand," he pauses, staring straight ahead. Effie watches him from the corner of her eye, waiting for him to spew out curses she's never even heard.

"I wouldn't mind having to see you for the rest of my existence."

Effie feels her entire mind halt. Despite knowing their rocky relationship, or rather their rough moments as acquaintances, the confession contains a hint of truth to it. They both regret the Hunger Games, for reasons spoken and not needing explanation, but she never would have thought that a former tribute could come to tolerate her after her unforgiving actions as the announcer.

"I'd have to agree with you there, Haymitch, but I can't quite understand how philosophical you're sounding with all this alcohol in your blood."

He smirks, taking another swig. "The more I drink, the more sober I get. I drink to forget, but each day, when that damned sun rises, I realize you can't forget your past any easier than you can erase it. So, I've accepted the fact that I lived through a shitty childhood and a murdering adolescence which led to my pathetic adulthood. In the end, no matter what, the only thing left for me to do is nothing, because that's all I can do about it."

Effie exhales deeply and quietly as Haymitch stands, swaying on his feet. He nods to the bartender, slurring his words and fumbling over a combination of his feet and the floor.

She knew it was an act, Haymitch knew it, and the bartender knew it. But after a person knows him, truly knows his past, they can't blame him for his perspective on life. Effie grips the glass in her hands, replaying her darkest moments in the spotlight.

She hates to admit the truth after so many years of lying with a smile, but when the night ends and the liquor's gone, the only truth that she knows for certain is that she and every other tribute is one is the same. They will never stop regretting their past, and they will regret that they can't stop.

***HG-CF-MJ***


	5. Bottle

**Drunken Thoughts**

**Bottles**

**Written by: HappyHowler4myLuver**

***HG-CF-MJ***

"Sometimes you tell the day

By the bottle that you drink

And times when you're alone

And all you do is think."

-Jon Bon Jovi

_Monday_

I reach for the bottle clumsily as Katniss' screams continue. Another night, another nightmare. Nothing new for either of us, but it'd be considerate if she could do it more quietly. The rough taste of whiskey suffocates my tongue, but unfortunately not my ears. It's bad enough to hear the voices in my head without her contribution.

The screaming subsides, and I can only guess Peeta is with her. Only a few years after the games and she's still as lost as she was when she was first participating. Of course, that's only natural. I never got over my experience. Katniss is stronger than anyone gives her credit for. She's stronger now than I've ever been, but I'll never say it to her face. Satisfaction would do nothing emotionally for us, and so I swig another gulp of whiskey.

Whiskey's always been a personal favorite of mine. It's harsh and unforgiving, but rewarding if you can stand it. Pungent, like the smell of blood at the Cornucopia. It's also cheap, another way whiskey and I are similar. When the screams reawaken, I finish the bottle, not caring that the liquor is running down the ends of my mouth. I just want to escape, to leave, to die here and now. But dying would be too easy, and who knows if the next world I'm headed to is any better.

_Tuesday_

I hate sunlight. It's just a futile reminder that once again I've received the sentence of living another day as a free murderer. I curse as I fumble down the stairs. I'm in no mood for talk from Greasy Sae, but luck has returned for me. I nearly climb into the fridge to find something to calm my shaking nerves, and settle for an opened beer in the back.

I don't hate beer, it's just not as strong as my usually preferences. I finish the drink in a single swallow, forcing the alcohol to take command of my brain and memories. My headache lessens and I kick away my shoes as I walk out the door. My hair's not combed, I'm wearing clothes that are a few days old, but they understand. Except they don't. They never can, lucky bastards.

The bartender grabs a beer before I can fall into a stool. I stare at the bottle, confused.

"Wha's this?"

"Beer. It's Tuesday."

Tuesday? What the hell's Tuesday got to do with anything? Damn Tuesday! But I take the beer anyway, finish it, and a few more. Once you've had a half dozen, the taste slowly vanishes, and it's almost like you're not drinking weak piss water.

Fine. I do hate beer.

_Wednesday_

I remember when I first took a shot of vodka. Absolutely hideous when you drink it alone, but it works a hell of a lot faster without the weak additions.

It was sometime after my reign as Victor, and I kept to myself about most things. The contestants meant nothing to me at the time, and it's a solid argument if they do now. But she never left my mind, and that's when I discovered the magic of alcohol. Magic, good or bad, saved my life, although once I grew into the drunken asshole I am now there's not much reason to save me anymore. Yet I'm still alive, still breathing the polluted air and drinking the same poison my fallen comrades didn't have the opportunity to enjoy.

Vodka isn't for the fainthearted, but I guess being completely heartless makes you immune to the rule. I may have looked out for Katniss, but it's because I saw in her what I once had the possibility to become. I never saw her as a daughter, per se, but as a second chance at a life I could never know. Keeping her alive is probably the worst decision I'll ever make, but I couldn't regret it.

I can't afford vodka, no one can outside the first two districts, but they have no need for the liquor's true strength. Nostalgia brings me back to vodka days, and even though I recall nothing of that era, I look back on the time and smile. Maybe if I'd been drinking during the games, I wouldn't need the bottle now.

_Friday_

"Get off your lazy ass and do something for yourself!"

"Yeah, because you do that so well on your own."

"I hate you, Haymitch! I hate you more than that Trinket bitch!"

Ouch. Now that's hurtful.

I'm not sure exactly what Katniss is yelling about, but I shrug it off and slip into my liquor cabinet. I pull out a bottle of cheap wine, red I think. I'm not entirely sure, but I do now the slow stupor I'm sinking into is as a close to an escape as I'll ever be.

I'm not even sure why Katniss is in my house. Unless I'm in hers, and then I'm not aware of how I got here in the first place. Maybe that's why she's upset. Maybe Peeta upset her, but then again how can the angel boy do any wrong in the princess' eyes? God, the lust between them makes me sick. I'd vomit if I had the will to waste the alcohol that's currently invading my veins. I take another drink, but slowly, savoring the taste.

Katniss bangs on the door. "Haymitch, you said you'd pick up the shipment on Thursday!"

"It is Thursday."

"It's Friday, you brainless moron! Can't you even tell what day it is?"

I look down at the bottle in my hand, grinning. "It's Wine Day! Drink up, sweetheart!"

_Saturday_

The bartender passes me a glass of caramel colored happiness. I tip back my head a bit as my tongue sinks into a bliss the rest of my body will never know. My tongue laps in the swish of the liquid and I swallow with momentary gleefulness. Bourbon makes a man happy.

The older man moves on to the rest of his customers, chatting occasionally. I'm glad I'm not under obligation to banter about frivolous subjects not even worth mentioning. However, as my glass nears empty, I garner the bartender's attention for another. He reaches for the bottle, but pauses as he stares. Just as I'm about to lash out, he sets the bottle of bourbon down beside my glass, returning to his conversation. Instead of taking back my words, I change the victim and curse out Snow as I lift the bottle. Dead or not, he's still a jackass.

_Sunday_

I sit calmly, listening to her cry. It's not an insanity inducing scream like the nightmares of the Hunger Games, but rather a nostalgic recollection of her old life. I don't hold Katniss, or speak when she's silent, because we understand the other. We understand that we will never repair the gaps in our lives, and so we know better than to try.

"I miss Prim."

"I know."

The bottle is in my view, but Katniss is too strong to take up alcohol, and so my pride prevents me from taking it at her weakest moment. Mentor or not, I wanted her to represent the Mockingjay against her initial will, and I remember the young girl she should have died trying to protect. She pulls her body closer to her chest.

"I miss my dad."

"I know."

I clench my fists as I lower my head. My own memories burst to the forefront, threatening to explode after so many years of being repressed. I never knew her father, I can't even remember the man's name, but I know from her tears he was a good man. If he had been alive, he could have saved her from a rough childhood before her entire life ended in her teenage years. But for us, pondering over what ifs only worsens our conditions.

"You need a drink."

"I… what?"

Her hands shaking from crying, she manages to walk over and lift the bottle without any risk of dropping it. I take it eagerly, unwitting to what I was consuming. But I drank it without worries, and I drowned my pride with ease.

"I miss Gale."

I lowered the bottle, shutting my eyes. _I can't lie and say it'll be okay, but you're never alone, Katniss. I'm here, and as long as I'm still alive in this God forsaken town I will be here. I understand, and I won't let anymore pain come to you. I'll tear down anymore battles that show up at the door! Because whether you've got Peeta, or Greasy Sae, or anyone, you know you're all I have, and you're all I've cared about since my games. It's not okay, but you're not alone! _I open my eyes, the tears never forming. Katniss is still rolled into a ball, and I take a breath, knowing what she wants to hear.

"I know."

***HG-CF-MJ***

_**Thank you all for 1,000+ hits on this story! Keep reviewing and alerting, and keep the memory of Haymitch Abernathy alive in case the movie doesn't do him justice.**_

_**~HappyHowler4myLuver**_


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